Drawn from Ash
by Xuchilbara
Summary: Temporary title.  St. Kleio Academy is a secretive school know for it's illustrious student body comprised entirely of clones.  With word spreading, France gets a little curious.  Afterschool Charisma/Hetalia - Axis Powers crossover.
1. Chapter 1

He had thought the idea was stupid from the very beginning. He heard whispers of the school from other countries, all of them bearing vague disapproving faces at the idea. Some speculated it might be good for them to meet old friends, people they remembered from their distant pasts. Being a country constantly meant losing those people who helped support you in difficult times and shape your very being into existence. Countries naturally lived far longer than humans did.

Others muttered it would only bring more trouble and heartache. "Humans are human for a reason. They live and they die. And we live on thanks to their efforts. How could it be right for them to live on as well?"

It was all stupid to consider. So a few scientists had managed cloning and had gathered clones of some very important people. What should that mean to him? He wasn't part of the awestruck public adoring the idea of bringing back glorious former days through long-dead people. He was France. He was a country that saw so many important people be born and die, all in the native soil of his land - of himself. If he tried to bring back everyone who had somehow shaped who he was or made his land prosper in some way, he would soon be filled with nothing but clones. And then how would any other person rise up and become important in such a sea of people?

Still, here he was, wearing a dark suit and a bright blue tie with his long hair tied neatly back. If he was going to go to this thing, he was at least going to look nice for it. In the end, he had let his curiosity get the better of him and had sought more information on the school. And that's when he learned about the Expo being held. He had decided to go on the excuse that he really had nothing better to do and some of the clones might be of some very lovely ladies so who was he to pass up the chance at a little eye candy? He hadn't bothered to mention it to any of the other countries though - he didn't need them scoffing at him over his change of heart.  
Typically only politicians and businessmen came to it, all to watch the accomplishments of these teenage clones. It was a festival for the teenagers, some said, and a good excuse to show off everything that they had been learning as well.  
Francis knew better, of course. And it was only confirmed as he mingled with the guests before the Expo, the pitches and tones of their voices not even bothering to disguise their motivations. "What better way for our company to gain publicity than to have a well-known figurehead? It doesn't really matter which one of them but really, just think! What other company would be able to say they were ran by George Washington? Or good old 'Honest Abe'! Think about the confidence that would build in our customers!"  
He sighed out, leaning against a wall watching the crowds with his arms crossed. Social situations like this usually had him brighter and more talkative but this... this was a meat market. All it was was a show and a meat market. It disgusted him. Oh they may have been just clones but even then, they were still humans. And treating them like a commodity to be used up for image made him feel ill somehow.

The Expo itself was what he had pictured it would be. Students were announced and, at times, a bit about the original person they were a clone of was told. More often than not, the name alone was simple enough for anyone to draw an image from.  
What they showed off all depended on what they ... or, well, the original person they were cloned from... had been famous for. Some came up and sang pieces, some played pieces they had composed. Much of the emphasis was on new material to show off that these teenagers were just as good as the originals had been, or so Francis imagined.  
A few of them came up and recited famous pieces or other famous quotes. They only had a short time each to perform and he imagined it made choosing the exact thing you wanted to say or do very difficult.

Midway through he was already slumping a bit in his seat, considering leaving. The students had done well on their pieces and several of them looked like they put a lot of pride into them. He had never been good with sitting through things like this though and not having his mind wander off, so he was fast becoming bored with all of it. Maybe this was why none of the other countries had bothered showing up.  
His interest perked a little at the boy that mounted the stage now. Even before anything was stated about him, France knew who he was. He was far taller than the man France had originally known but that bright smile, those brown locks of hair and, more importantly, the uniform all brought it back to him.  
France grinned a bit. Well well, he hadn't actually though he would see the likes of Napoleon Bonaparte. Then again, he certainly hadn't expected the young fellow who came on stage sometime before that the director announced as Hitler. The child had been far too young and far too bright to remind him of that other man, though he had wondered silently at what Germany would have thought of him. He brushed that out of his mind as he listened to Napoleon's own speech and watched a demonstration of the teenager's swordsmanship. He was quite good at it and France couldn't help but feel a bit of pride over that.  
Napoleon exited the stage then but France noted that he didn't leave entirely. He stood in wings just beyond the stage and seemed like he was going to stay there for a bit. Was he waiting on the next student then? A friend of his he wanted to cheer on perhaps? Judging by the expectant expression on the teen's face, France rather suspected it was a bit more than that. Ah, such friendship! Now he was intrigued to see who was next.

His breath caught in his throat the moment she stepped out, artificial lights setting her armor to polished brilliance and the white of her banner streaming with her steps on the stage floor.  
So young! The girl standing on stage couldn't be over seventeen at most and it was only after a moment that France remembered that seventeen was almost the same age when he had first seen her. A casual chance meeting, a glimpse on the streets of Vaucouleurs. He couldn't even remember now why he had been there but he had been and had seen her petition that count for permission to visit the royal French court. Her hair had been long and messy, trailing down her back as she pleaded with the man, blue eyes full of fire and passion set into the coarse, tanned peasant face of hers.  
The girl on stage started to speak and he realized he had completely missed the announcer stating her name. What did it matter though? He certainly hadn't needed to hear it because his heart was already pounding it back at him and his mind was already racing to images. Images blurred and worn, almost as old as he was, faded edges of a bare slip of a girl who had called to him in the name of both his people and of God. A girl who had done what generals couldn't.

The Maid of Orléans. Jeanne. How many years had it been again? He didn't need anyone to tell him her name, no matter how many centuries passed.

He finally remembered to breathe and realized at the same moment that he was pushed up on the edge of his seat. A flush rose in his cheeks and he attempted to casually settle back in his chair, even as his ears strained on her words.  
She was speaking in fluid, flowing french which he thoroughly doubted most of the businessmen and politicians in their crisp suits with their eyes on dollars and prestige could understand. They were quotes he knew well, all sayings he did as well. Then she struck the end of her banner against the stage floor and the crowd almost jumped as one.  
The French that flowed from her lips now was sharp and stern. She was giving this her all and he couldn't help yet another feeling of pride at it. How could he expect different from his Jeanne? He had to remind himself quickly that this wasn't his Jeanne. His Jeanne was gone and had been gone for a very long time. This Jeanne was...  
The moment was over like that. She was moving off-stage, banner flowing behind her, and he found himself watching her intently.

* * *

A/N: Just something I've had knocking around in my tiny brain for the past month or so. I finally gave up and threw it on a text document on my computer, then let this partial bit sit for about two weeks before I even thought to try writing anymore. This will likely be slow going since it's just to get the idea out of my brain but hey, if you want to stick around and read, be my guest. :3


	2. Chapter 2

The rest of the Expo was spent with France trying to decide just how he felt about this development. The fact that she was cloned wasn't really too huge of a surprise. She was a very well known and highly glamourized figure in his history. Countless movies, countless books, all about her. She had risen to be a figure of both reverence and one supported by little real knowledge about her true self, even among her own people.  
He remembered her though. The memories were worn and faded like pictures left far too long in the sun but he remembered her. He remembered the tone of her voice, her laugh, her smiles... he remembered.  
He remembered and it was that memory that lit the fire in his chest as the Expo came to a close. It was all of those memories that had him filing through the crowd and eventually standing before Dr. Kamiya and the director of St. Kleio Academy before he even fully comprehended his impetuous actions.

His voice was rough even to his own ears. "How much."  
"How much?" Dr. Kamiya just gave him that politely confused look so many men with important jobs learn to easily give at a moment's notice.  
"How much do you intend on selling them for."  
A true moment of confusion clouded the man's face, then he quickly comprehended what the blond in the dark suit standing before him meant. His lips curved into a slight smile, one that only those truly seasoned in dealing with unruly situations in a pleasantly dismissive manner. "This really isn't the time or place for such questions. If you would like to make an appointment with my secretary or..."  
"I'm not coming back to this place!" Francis almost spat out the words, his expression darkening. The clones were not at fault themselves, he couldn't hate them or blame them. It was these _men_. These... cattle merchants. That's what they may as well be. Cattle merchants who had somehow crafted a girl of barely seventeen out of little more than ash, dropped her in polished armor and taunted him with the fact that someone wearing that same face was speaking in that determined french with that serious, determined expression.  
He breathed out a heavy breath. This would take a little more finesse he realized. Francis could certainly be persuasive at times. One could just ask the numbers of women he had wooed to find that out. Business though had rarely been his strong point but hey, half of business was talking a pretty show so...  
He willed his attitude to change, assumed a slight smile that spoke of mild indifference. "What I mean is that I only asked like this because I'm intending to return home by at least tomorrow evening and I want to settle this matter quickly, that's all. I don't want to have to come back multiple times."  
"Impatient, I see." Dr. Kamiya nodded lightly, his face calmly neutral, and then turned his gaze to the dark haired man accompanying him. "If you don't mind, could you fetch the director? I believe we have some business here to discuss."  
The man replied, "I believe the director is probably off watching the demonstration the students are having."  
"Demonstration?" Francis asked. Dr. Kamiya ah'ed lightly and looked back to him, adding, "The students are having a little ceremony of sorts. Trying to 'break ties with destiny' they say."  
That just made Francis cock a brow up. What destiny?  
Dr. Kamiya adjusted his glasses a bit, "I believe it would take a little long to explain right now, sir." Meaning, of course, that he didn't really _want_ to explain it to Francis. "If you go to our track field, they ought to be set up by now."  
Business could wait a bit now that Francis' curiosity was piqued by this. The track field certainly wasn't hard to find, given that most of the students were migrating out in that direction and a good deal of the Expo attendants were as well. He heard murmurs as he went, catching snatches of people discussing some sort of mock sacrifice.  
Coming out of the main building finally, the evening sun hit him just right and he raised a hand to shield from it. And then he started at what the students were gathering around. A rough wooden cross, built in almost exaggerated proportions, the equally rough cut stacks of wood piled up neatly around it's base.  
The first thought to enter his mind was that she hadn't been burnt on a cross but a stake. And the next was the cold rush that swept over him as he thought that maybe, just maybe... but surely the students weren't so dumb. The people gathered there weren't heartless enough to watch such a thing either, were they?  
He wouldn't know unless he asked and clasping the shoulder of one of the nearby spectators briefly, Francis asked what was going on precisely.  
"Ah, apparently the students are having some sort of mock re-enactment of the death of Joan of Arc! Isn't that fascinating?" The man smiled at Francis and added, "No doubt some sort of advanced pyrotechnics or special eff... oh."  
By then, Francis was already gone. Thankfully there wasn't a need to sprint through the crowd, not just yet. God help him, he wasn't about to stand and even watch a mock burning take place. He didn't care if absolutely no one would be hurt by it, if it were all smoke and illusions. This was always the part he could never stand to watch in all of the movies. He had once and all it left him with was the taste of smoke in his lungs and the remembrance of a dull, tired ache in his legs from how hard he had tried. Even if his boss hadn't cared, had turned his back and even turned Francis' for a short time..

He reached the cross in short order, his eyes scanning the crowds of students for her. When he did spot her, it was between two other teenagers, one with long dark hair and another with shorter brown hair. The one with the shorter hair reminded him of someone but he didn't bother thinking over it too deeply.  
When Francis wanted to be commanding, he could be. He never liked to be, never relished in the moments where he had to be harsh and rough. He was the nation of love after all, wasn't he? While there could be roughness in love at times, it wasn't something Francis himself enjoyed. Here he was though, heated and angry as he laid hold of Joan's wrist, pulling her forward from between the two other teenagers. The pair of boys gave him a shocked look, Joan herself looking no less surprised.  
"I won't allow this, do you hear me?" He directed his eyes to the other boys, expression firm. Then he abruptly turned to leave, pulling Joan along with him. He felt her stumble a bit, quick to regain her footing and catch up to his pace, and he slacked his grip on her wrist a little in compensation.  
"Hey! Joan!"  
Francis didn't need to turn to see who the voice belonged to. When he did look, he saw an amazingly confused young man with messy brown hair peering at Joan. And then the same teen turned his gaze with more sternness onto Francis. "Just who do you think you are? Let go of her."  
"So you would stand back and watch her burn, Napoleon?" Francis briefly felt sorry for the venom in his tone but likewise he couldn't help but feel the anger burning in him now. Napoleon, his Napoleon! Doing absolutely nothing to stop this! "I thought you idolized her."  
That seemed to startle the young man. He blinked wide-eyed at Francis, then to Joan herself. And then his expression fell into one of guilt. "It wasn't that I wanted her to. This is what Joan felt was necessary. And I want to support her as much as I can." The reason why was left unanswered, though anyone could see the reason written plainly on the young man's face.  
Francis turned his glance now to Joan, looking for her reaction. If she noted the unanswered reason, she certainly didn't look like she did. She merely nodded, adding, "That's correct. In order to break ties with destiny and live beyond my original's age, I wanted this."  
Now he was merely baffled. She looked so damn accepting of it and he had no doubt that, like her original, she believed in this idea with all of her heart. Francis' grip tightened, bringing her glance over to him. And then her eyes widened a bit, no doubt because the country was doing his best to hold back tears of absolute frustration.  
"This is no way to break ties," he muttered in French, his tone rough and heavy. This girl wasn't Jeanne, Jeanne was long dead, Jeanne was an entirely different person. And yet, she was too much like her... or at least some of the bits Francis could recall of her. He continued on in French, only Joan and Napoleon having any idea of what he was saying. "Break ties through living, not through trying to die. I'll be damned if I watch it happen again."  
The last words he spoke, he directed straight to Napoleon, looking in the teen in the face. "And if you cared so much for her, you couldn't either."

In the end, the business portion of the transaction had been rather easy. There had been plenty of sitting around a desk that night, working out particulars and going over papers. Before Francis knew it, he was knee deep and he couldn't have waded out of it all if he tried.  
It was more monetary exchange than adoption, though Dr. Kamiya himself played up such an angle in his words. There was no talk of legal guardians or schooling, only talk of how much he was willing to give and how much they were willing to accept. And their price was very, _very_ steep.  
Before he really comprehended just how much he was out, she was sitting next to him in the car the next morning. Then she was boarding the plane with him as well. He briefly fumbled with the passports as they received their tickets, somehow humbled and embarrassed by the Bonnefoy stamped just after the Jeanne. He couldn't very well claim her to be Jeanne d'Arc or even Jeanne Darc without raising a few brows, he reasoned, and it only seemed more natural that she be traveling with a relative at the age of seventeen than with a stranger. So papers were provided giving her that last name. How it was all managed so quickly... well, Francis didn't have a clue. And he really didn't want to either because it spoke clearly of just what sorts of connections St. Kleio Academy managed to hold.  
It wasn't until the pair were on the plane and settled into their seats that the full weight of what he had done settled over Francis. Jeanne had taken the inside seat as Francis' recommendation, mostly so she could watch the plane take off. She never had and he thought she might like it. Now the lean blond who wore such a stoic expression almost ever time he looked over to her was leaned forward. One hand was settled on the sill of the small window, her eyes fixed on the outside and the slowly taxing plane as they climbed into the air. With her eyes wide like that and the somewhat surprised look her expression had taken on, she looked every bit a young woman of seventeen.  
He looked away to brood silently to himself. She wasn't really talkative like the Jeanne he remembered. _She isn't the Jeanne you remember, _his inner voice repeated for around the thousandth time. The words rang loud and clear to him, yet it was one thing to say such to himself and really accept it. He had to admit that the Jeanne he remembered had the capability of being overly serious at times. Harsh expressions weren't uncommon on her face; she had been a commanding woman after all and sometimes that called for heavy expressions. She took her task from God as law and carried it with a heavy solemnity.

She could smile though. He didn't exactly remember the smiles or any of the looks with real clear accuracy but he recalled the tone of them all.

He allowed himself a glance back to the woman beside him now, the white light bouncing off of the clouds fading her blond hair to a luminous shade. He hadn't once seen her smile, not at the Expo or in the brief and almost meek conversation they had had in the car that day. He internally cringed over the thoughts of that conversation. He, France, one of the greatest lovers in the world... and he hadn't been able to fathom just how to converse with the girl. She knew so little of the world outside of her Academy and her studies on Jeanne herself, he had trouble thinking of something to begin on.  
It was only compounded by the fact that she was Jeanne's clone. He had sat there in that car, hands folded together in his lap and eyes focused down on those same hands with lowered brows, trying to think. What had he and Jeanne always spoke of? They had had numerous conversations, this much he was well aware of. And yet for the life of him he couldn't remember the exact conversations themselves. He couldn't place what her favorite topics were, what jokes she had teased him with...  
How much had he forgotten of her? He hadn't thought of her in years, to be perfectly honest. She was his national heroine and he always remembered her on May 30th. He hadn't really sat down and thought back on her specifically – her likes, her dislikes, her voice, her laughter – in a very long time.

"Are you alright?"  
Francis almost jolted at the question, eyes blinking quickly. Then he comprehended what was happening; he'd let himself drift into thought over the issue of Jeanne and at some point his eyes had drifted over to this Jeanne. And now he was facing the lightly curious expression on this one's face.  
He laughed faintly, giving Joan a slight smile. "Ah, I am perfectly fine, cherie. It does touch me though that you worry."  
"I don't really," she replied after, shifting back in her seat to look back out the window. "You were staring at me. It seemed like the appropriate question."  
A deep sigh passed Francis' lips, his body slumping down in his seat. "You wound me, Jeanne." It was mostly exaggeration but really now, this young girl had one of the sharpest and most blunt tongues he had found in a long time. It didn't surprise him, considering just who she was a clone of. If there had ever been one woman in his history who could chastise him and make him actually _feel_ it, it was Jeanne. She had been both like a lecturing mother and a protector at the same time. It was odd to say it but if there was ever a woman who came close to being the mother of his nation, it was her.  
The pair had lapsed into silence then and Francis feared it would be like this until they touched down in Paris. He was almost startled when it was the girl who broke the silence this time.  
"You said you wouldn't watch it happen again."  
"What?" Francis looked over to her, surprised. He had honestly forgotten what he had said near that big wooden cross at the Academy.  
"Did you watch Jeanne burn then?" Joan's expression was as cool and calm as ever, though her gaze read a world of difference to her expression. Slowly Francis was beginning to understand that for this Jeanne, it wasn't about outward expressions but what he could read from her eyes.  
He straightened in his seat, expression serious as he replied. "Yes." Actually, he hadn't arrived until the deed itself was nearly finished but that was enough.  
Joan continued looking steadily at him for several moments then sighed out. "That's impossible."  
"It isn't." Then a smile took hold of his lips, hands folding in his lap as he relaxed slightly. "And once we touch down, I'll explain just why it isn't"


End file.
